1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave

9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address

12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb